Hodge. Stay! Who comes here? Jane, on again with thy mask!
Enter the Earl of Lincoln, the Lord Mayor and Servants.
Lincoln. Yonder’s the lying varlet mocked us so.
L. Mayor. Come hither, sirrah!
Firk. I, sir? I am sirrah? You mean me, do you not?
Lincoln. Where is my nephew married?
Firk. Is he married? God give him joy, I am glad of it. They have a fair day, and the sign is in a good planet, Mars in Venus.
L. Mayor. Villain, thou toldst me that my daughter Rose
This morning should be married at Saint Faith’s;
We have watched there these three hours at the least,
Yet see we no such thing.
Firk. Truly, I am sorry for’t; a bride’s a pretty thing.